Points in Time
by Be3
Summary: Why Methos's life - and not only his - is never dull. Rated for safety (nothing graphic yet). Drabbles. Some chapters will be X-overs. cross-posted to highlander100.


Usual disclaimers apply. X-posted to highlander100 on lj (where I am known as serenusc).

1. Methos & the New Pewsey Horse

They were friendly.

He had expected awkwardness (everybody else belonged to a fire brigade), and was set to charm his way into their good graces. However, it went without a hitch. (He was at his most likeable despite speaking hardly a word. _But what a joke, brother._)

It was almost summer, and work on the windy slope went merrily; no doubt, the men appreciated the fresh air more than few other could. They cut the turf, chalked and sang, carving a horse into the hill.

A white horse and the date 1937.

…He will stop laughing at it soon enough.

2. Richie & Co

"I won't watch Cousteau. All those fish…es. He's…" Mac's stare made Richie bit back "boring."

"Evil. Got the "k", you know? Like in _Kalas_."

"Oh, that." Adam waved a hand nonchalantly. "Haven't you heard?" His long face grew even longer. "It's a turn-of-the-century thing. Last time…" He made a great show of summoning to mind classified Watcher archives. "Morgan… Merridew, yes… Moriarty…"

Duncan's teeth clanked, and Joe breathed with mock incredulity: "_Mac_!"

"Hmm. Not exactly."

Richie looked at them, and they at him. Something was going on.

"Bye, guys," he intoned sourly.

"Bye…" Joe said. The door banged shut. "…kid."

3. Joe & Richie.** AU 'Chivalry': Respect Your Elders**

Richie dropped to his knees, hamstrung, gulping down air to not cry. Air has never tasted so sweet.  
'What do you see?' Kristin asked absently.  
'A # !# ! with a knife,' he spat.  
'Knives,' said she, prompting him to look into her eyes with the tip of her blade, 'are older than history.'  
A shot rang clearly. The bullet killed her on the spot, made Richie duck instinctively from under the falling sword, and sealed the fate of one wayward Watcher.  
'Men,' said Joe Dawson, feeling suicidal, 'are older than knives.'  
And closed his eyes to not see the Quickening.

4. Methos & Joe

'And you let him lying there, just like that? Joseph Dawson, I don't believe you.'  
'Yeah, I left him, just like that. Crap, Methos! He nearly killed _Rich_. There was nothing I could do.'  
'Why not take his head?' Methos reasoned, taking a tankard from a tray, carefully not looking at the waitress. It was a wrong waitress. A good girl, but most of the customers treated her somewhat coldly.  
'And you? I didn't, and that's that. I had to call you, remember?'  
Methos sighed. Mortals were so touchy. And MacLeod was so chatty.  
And he only wanted to help.

5. Methos & McLeod

The world's oldest Immortal sighed, frustrated. Translating obscure ancient messages of questionable verisimilitude wasn't how he liked to spend his evenings.

'Find Methos,' he grumbled. 'Methos is _wise_, Methos is like the British Encyclopaedia. When in trouble, go to Methos, ask advice, then botch it. Shit, MacLeod! I haven't been to Alexandria in the fifth century! Can't you limit your problems to the last five hundred years?'

MacLeod stirred in the armchair nearby, lulled into a doze by the constant stream of commentary. His belief in his friend's linguistic genius was unshakable.

'And you snore,' added Methos under his breath.

6. Joe & Watchers

_Once upon a time, a man lives.  
Jokes.  
Works.  
Worries for his friends. Of course, they don't know he exists, they're older and stronger, they have done more and seen more, still, he'll worry and damn the fates, which pit good people against each other. Or against bad people, who have no mercy and no honour.  
And when his unknowing friends survive, once again, he toasts them and tells stories about them and hides a tear.  
_Adam Pierson sipped his beer and caught a smile on Don Salzer's face. MacLeod might get the Quickenings, but Dawson sure got the kicks.

7. Darius

Hours went by, but the man was still kneeling.  
His cloak was so wet it hung in marble-like folds – immovable by the wind, not soaking splashes the rain threw at and washed off him, he'd resemble a statue if not for the mist of his breathing.  
His guilt was immovable, saturated; a tight embrace. But if he let it slip behind him in the trampled mud, he'd have to look in the faces of people he'd come within a step of slaughtering – that one step over the sword of his victim.  
He rose at last, the sky bearing him down.

8. Methos, McLeod & Joe. Random drabble (On the run.)

'Joe? Joe, wake up.'

'That would be his shoulder you're addressing.'

'Shoulder is OK. Last night -'

'MacLeod, _last night_ he didn't give a damn about your - deductions. I was impressed, though. Such a profound insight in human anatomy.'

'Well, how'd I know he'd burrow so deep? We should cut the thing in half.'

'Relax, he won't suffocate. Mr. Dawson likes his privacy. He can write up all kinds of things, and not worry that Mommy dearest would snatch his flashlight away.'

'You mean this flashlight?'

'Guys? Methos! I'll sue for harassment!'

'Sorry, Joe, I love searching sleeping bags.'

9. Richie & Mac (random drabble)

He couldn't remember how she looked years ago, when he, a toddler, fed cigarettes to cats in the park. Today, her hair hung in dirty ringlets, her shawl was worn paper thin, and her hands ended with inflexible talons.  
But when she told him he'll live a short life if he threw things away for the fun of it - _again_, - he saw four beasts circling him one after another, fur stiff with static, ears flat against their skulls, tails switching, silent. Deadly. Guarding.  
He fled to Mac for the night. To apologize. To talk. And to to listen.

10. James Horton and Blake Wilmington

A shadow is the opposite of a reflection. Distorted. Flat. Take his silhouette - legs broken backwards where the wall meets the ground, cracks in his nose where the paint peels off, a hump where his coat is hunched. The tip of his sword is quivering in the quirks of passing light.  
Wish I could write it down in my report. But no; this is Blake 'You Are To Fear Me, Or Else' Wilmington, a classic Villain of Watcher Lore. There are some elder ones, but few as crazy…  
He hides, I seek. And then... _aim_.  
I am his shadow.

11. Richie, Tessa & Duncan

There's some book she was going to read until he's back. She's looking for her reading glasses. Ridiculous, to need them at her age.

'What?'

She'd ask very politely. 'Richie, have you seen my glasses?'

'Uh… in the kitchen?'

She darts to the kitchen and searches every drawer and shelf. Not a trace.

'Think again?'

They aren't in the wardrobe, on the sofa, and in the collection of Chinese figurines, either. She warns him not to mess with the figurines; Duncan'd be mad when he returns.

The door chimes. It's Duncan. She flies to him. Rich digs through the laundry.

12. Methos

He's sitting on a dustbin, left foot swinging into a pile of litter. His hands rest on his knees, palms arched against calluses he'd had for most of his life burning anew, almost voluntarily. The wind tugs at his coat, and the outline of his hidden blade is too sharp. Luckily, clothes don't stretch so easily anymore, though according to current trends, Wool is again threatening to dilute Synthetics. An Immortal advice: never bow to fashion, it bites. His handkerchief stinks of Seine's least identifiable component.

And it's cold, too cold to wait.

'For Darius,' he whispers into the fog.

13. An X-over with ACD's Sherlock Holmes stories. Holmes is Methos, Watson isn't a Watcher.

Until We Meet Again.

Something is missing. And nagging him to remember it _right now_. Problem is, Sherlock Holmes's Law of the Attic allows no exceptions, which means Whatever It Is has to wait for his brain to deal with its other concerns and turn, with a sigh, to A New Idea. That's how brains work, no consideration for their owners' comfort and safety.  
Anyway, there is Something about the manuscript, the legend of a violent baron, and – the name, _yes, It must be the name..._  
He is trying to fall asleep when It hits him. Hard.  
'Oh, no. _No_. Not _that _Hugo Baskerville!'

He rushes to Devonshire, taking a toothbrush, a revolver, and a handful of collars, which immediately and irreversibly wilts into a gritty fistful.  
Even collars turned against him. This is how civilizations end.  
He only hopes to intercept someone of whom he knows that they are: Immortal; eager to re-claim their property; willing to kill without remorse. Who has already escaped him thrice in London, a city he knows as the back of his hand.  
And the battleground is chosen by the enemy. He hasn't seen the country since…  
Yes. Perfect.  
Methos smiles.  
He has some experience as a caveman.

Good old Watson. Brave sitting duck.

Damn.

Writing his reports from a lion's den without a single grammar mistake. It soothes his jangling nerves. Everything else has the opposite effect: the canine lullabies, the insane convict and his will-o-wisp-ing relations, the so-called typist Laura Lyons (he knows a Watcher when he sees one).  
And the weather seems to have it in for him. Or maybe it is just memories. This is an old land, after all. Plenty of graves.  
But sometimes, during his darker musings, he ghosts a hand over a moss-covered slab, and hears an echo of Holy Ground.

He managed to surprise his friend again. Actually, the way Watson jumps at every shadow, he probably shouldn't have. Then again, he has long ago established that surprising friends is far less unpleasant than being dead.  
Instinct tells him the case will come to an end soon; and another, to keep his scimitar close at hand.  
The night is young.  
The victim is not his client, though he privately fears only luck has preserved sir Henry's life so far. Some people are simply more – mortal – than others.  
And Hugo – Jack – has guts; he's got to say that for the boy.

Cover blown, he allows himself to be led away from his Neolithic abode towards what both he and Mr. Stapleton must think of as a promising hostage nursery. He grinds his teeth. He'll wire the police in the morning. Tonight he'll drink, and listen to their host's rambling. It should not be difficult to ask a few questions about the charming Miss Stapleton. He feels like he misses something here, something as big as the memory that sent him scrambling to this desolate place.  
He just can't trust tall Spanish women with soulful eyes.  
Call it obsession, but he can't.

The end has come. More like waited benignly for them to wander into the ambush, and then stood up and waved.  
They shot the dog, took care of - hopefully, less threatened now - Sir Henry Baskerville, ran to the house, and the long-awaited Buzz slammed into his head. Disconcerting. Either Hugo was stupider than his usual, or more dangerous. Either way, he enters the room with trepidation.  
And sees her.  
_Impossible!_  
She struggles against the ropes, and for a moment _he is then and there – _  
But Watson pushes him to unbind her, and he wakes himself with a cry.

Has he escaped? She asks.  
He cannot escape us, madam, says G. Lestrade, one of the finest Inspectors of Scotland Yard.  
Watson bites his tongue. Methos's long face freezes. Cassandra's hands twitch, welts paling ominously. Unfortunately, Lestrade blinks, and misses two glares that'd have sent a lesser man crying... for the last time in their lives.  
From the mouths of babes, thinks he who is called Sherlock Holmes. For now, he'd escape Cassandra, send his client to travel round the world, perhaps take a long vacation himself; but someday, they will meet again.  
Even the Grimpen mire will dry out.


End file.
